


Marco Polo

by anderscones, BakerBitches, quintobatchh, sherkeys, whosgirl22



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 20:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anderscones/pseuds/anderscones, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerBitches/pseuds/BakerBitches, https://archiveofourown.org/users/quintobatchh/pseuds/quintobatchh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherkeys/pseuds/sherkeys, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whosgirl22/pseuds/whosgirl22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let's play Marco Polo, John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marco Polo

**Author's Note:**

> We have smut-a-thons in chat sometimes, so this is what came out of one of those meetings. It was our first time writing smut, but a lot of fun... and well, hope you enjoy!
> 
> COLLABORATION BY: BATCHFULLY (Vicki), BENADDICTED4LIFE (Kate), GEMTHEST (Amethyst), MICHELLEPOPSICLE (Michelle), JAWNLCK (Pauline), QUINTOBATCHH (Stephy), THENUMBHUNTER (Natalie) NEW0CUBE (Leila), SIR-DILDO-SWAGGINS (Lina)  
> (and special thanks to Miranda, lokis-army-at-221b, Ellie, saywheeeeee, and Liz)
> 
> Okay, let’s see... thanks has to be given.
> 
> Lina, who reads so much gay smut that we had her beta this and make sure we didn’t screw up. [yOOOOO]  
> Michelle, for writing in all the really filthy bits some of us had no clue how to write.  
> Vicki, for making Marco Polo a naughty game. You’ll never think of it the same way again.  
> Kate, for introducing the riding crop.  
> Just... everybody else who was mentioned before, for working on this fun piece of fanfic. xoxo

The inhabitants of 221B Baker Street might not be used to the unusual heat wave that is currently sweeping London, but that won’t stop them from taking full advantage of it. 

If John complains, Sherlock will say that he has the window open because the heat would be unbearable if it were closed. This is technically true, but Sherlock’s real motivation is much better than proper ventilation; John has a tendency to get extremely loud when Sherlock is having his way with him, and the open window only helps proclaim that satisfaction to the world. When John is laid out below him like this, inch after inch of tan skin exposed, Sherlock can’t help but want the whole world to know how lucky he is. 

Sherlock shakes his head, grinning ferociously at the thought as his blue-gray eyes return to the smooth, delicious expanse of John Watson’s back, just visible in the deepening twilight. He concentrates fiercely on the ice cube slowly making its way down that tan canvas, eying the wet trail for a second with gleaming excitement before he swoops down and licks it off. He adds another cube, and then another; he runs each one down John’s body, only to replace the cold with the warmth of his mouth. His long fingers slide up John’s spine - the touches are light, ghosting over supple skin. Sherlock breathes down John’s neck, causing the naked man to shiver. Groans are thrown into the pillow, and Sherlock smiles, a predatory gleam in his verdigris eyes.

"Jesus, Sherlock..." John tries to grab at something, but his wrists are firmly secured to the bedposts. Sherlock leans down over John’s body, causing the bound man’s body to clench.

Sherlock's hands travel up the back of John's legs as he runs his tongue from the base of his spine, up to his neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there. John holds himself still, knowing that if he moves even a fraction of an inch, Sherlock will bite, and he will do it hard.

Sherlock sinks his teeth into John’s shoulders, working his mouth along the skin slowly. He places another ice cube on the back of John’s neck, and traces it down his vertebrae. John tries not to shiver, but fails. Every muscle trembles with his effort to remain unmoving. 

"John,” Sherlock sighs, disapproval tainting his tone. He pauses, and leans down until his full lips are inches from John’s ear. "Guess I’ll be needing that riding crop after all,” he murmurs.

Sherlock crawls off of him and moves away. John groans and tries to muffle the noise with the pillow. He attempts to stay perfectly silent, and when he thinks Sherlock isn't looking, grinds his hips into the mattress, trying to get some semblance of friction. But Sherlock sees everything - he always does. Sherlock approaches the bed, and John feels the cool leather on his shoulder. He knows what’s coming.

Sherlock whips the crop lightly against John's shoulder, right over his scar. John lets out a gasp, something akin to a whine. Sherlock takes his hand and presses it firmly against the small of John's back, pushing him into the mattress as he practically crawls on top of him. Sherlock’s teeth gleam in the now darkness; this is his favorite part. A bead of sweat drips down John's forehead and his brow furrows in concentration.

"Is this what you want?" Sherlock growls.

There is a long pause as John searches for his voice. 

"Yes," John gasps. He tries to breathe, his breath coming in ragged gasps. 

A predatory chuckle. "I thought as much."

John's heart is racing, his pupils fully dilated. His thoughts run ragged through his mind because he knows what’s coming next.

Sherlock is still lying atop John’s back as he grinds down with the full force of his strong legs, and quickly pulls away. Before John can make a sound, he feels the kiss of leather against his arse, the sharp sting a welcome relief.

He bucks, almost jerking into the leather, wanting, needing more. Another blow comes this time, a bit harder. John bites his lip as he shuts his eyes, trying not to cry out as he strains against his bindings. Sherlock has opted for two ties today.

The hand not wielding the crop makes its way down John's side; nails dig in and scrape long trails down his torso. John's eyes roll back in his head as he tries to maintain his composure.

"Oh god," John moans. Sherlock narrows his eyes.The sting from the crop and the scrapes resonate within John as Sherlock runs his tongue up along the other side of John's midsection.

Sherlock drops the crop and grabs John's wrists. 

"Stop. Fidgeting." He leans in close as he whispers in John's ear, his hot breath sending tingles through John's body. He gives a quick nip on his earlobe then traces the shell, his teeth dragging the flesh away slowly, his tongue tracing circles.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Sherlock murmurs, moving down to the small of John’s back. 

John's throat goes dry. He knows if he says yes, Sherlock will be displeased and there will be more crop. If he says no, Sherlock will be displeased and there will be more crop, so, really, it's a win win.

"Yes, I am," John lets out in a tiny whisper. He tries to twist his neck to look at Sherlock, but he isn't at the most opportune angle. 

“John,” Sherlock growls. "That was the wrong answer." Sherlock whips the crop against his arse, once, twice, a third time.

John tries to buck his hips into the mattress, a small moan escaping with each thwack. The pain spreads, sending white hot pin-pricks of awareness bursting across John’s flesh.

"Sherlock," he groans. 

The reply comes with one final smack before Sherlock throws the leather to the side; John hears the sound of a zip being undone. 

"I really do enjoy seeing you tied up... underneath me..." Sherlock says, his voice sending vibrations through John's body. "Should I keep you like this?" he inquires. It sounds rhetorical. 

John nods his head anyway, biting his lip, nearly breaking the skin as Sherlock gives a light chuckle and strong fingers trace their way down the curve of John's spine. He presses one of his palms into John's shoulders and ghosts a finger up the back of John's thigh with the other hand. 

"Let's play Marco Polo, John. You tell me when I'm getting closer. Marco." 

Sherlock presses his index finger into the back of John's knee. John wishes Sherlock would stop with the teasing and just fuck him already. 

"Marco." Sherlock walks his fingers up the back of John's thigh, stopping partway.

"Po-pol-po-" John gasps. "Fucking hell, Sherlock, if you don't..."

Sherlock stops him mid-sentence by reaching around John's waist and grabbing his erection. John lets out a keening sound as he bucks his hips into Sherlock's hand. He bites down onto the pillow beneath him. Sherlock's grip is firm, though not too tight. There’s a light popping sound, followed by a cool sensation at his arsehole, and he realizes Sherlock has grabbed lube. John holds his breath, feels Sherlock's slick fingers teasing around his entrance but not quite pushing in. John strains against the holds and begins to lean backwards, but Sherlock stops him. 

"John, are you going to behave?" 

John's hips freeze against the bed at the question. This is killing him; he wants nothing more than for Sherlock to be inside of him, fucking him, but he forces himself to lie still. 

"Excellent,” Sherlock croons in a low voice at the nape of John’s neck.

The fingers finish their exploration and Sherlock gently probes his finger around the ring. He doesn’t want to rush it. Sherlock's other hand is now tracing circles on John's abdomen. John feels one cool fingertip slowly entering him. God, has he missed this. "So very tight, John," Sherlock whispers in his ear. 

The sound of his name in that deep voice causes John to shiver. The hand on his abdomen keeps John steady. Sherlock drags his finger out before pushing it back in. John licks his lips and burrows his head into the pillow. He feels a second finger this time, slowly but surely making its way inside his body. Sherlock moves his fingers in and out, stretching him in preparation. 

John whimpers, wanting to push himself onto Sherlock, but Sherlock’s hand is holding him still. He can't move; he needs Sherlock to do more. He is going crazy with want.

If John wasn’t tied up and at Sherlock’s mercy, he would be bouncing off those two fingers. They feel so fucking good. John's wrists flex in a subconscious attempt to reciprocate, nearly jumping off of the bed as Sherlock scissors his fingers. 

Sherlock suddenly twists his wrist, pressing against that one spot deep inside John, then slowly adds in another digit. John lets out a wanton moan, trying to muffle the sound against the fabric of the pillow; John wants to be louder and wants to move against Sherlock, but he knows the detective would not approve.

“Sherlock,” John whimpers as Sherlock becomes more rough with his motions.

For a moment, he seems to take pity on John.

"Do you want more?" Sherlock whispers into his earlobe, taking a small nip at the man beneath him. His touch is softer, more insistent as he speaks. 

"Oh god yes," John replies. 

Sherlock withdraws his fingers as he moves off the bed leaving John feeling cold. 

"Then you shall have it," he purrs.

Sherlock rips open the foil package, and quickly puts the condom on. John hears the unsnapping of a cap, the soft sound of gel being squirted into Sherlock's palm. The anticipation makes him even more turned on, if that were possible. He shut his eyes, waiting... wanting... needing. One large hand returns to John's abdomen, curving around his side as Sherlock resumes his position behind him. The bed creaks as Sherlock shifts closer and closer.

"On your knees John," a dark chocolate voice growls. His hand and those long fingers help John comply with the command. Sherlock spreads him open and presses just the lube-covered tip to his opening. John tries to stay completely still, though it is a difficult task since his body wants nothing more than the length threatening to enter him. Sherlock presses in slowly, wanting to play it out until, finally, he is completely sheathed inside John. They both pause there, giving time for John to become accustomed to the feeling of Sherlock inside him. Sherlock, as deep as he can be inside of his partner, enjoys the sensation. He lets out a sigh, more relieved than anything, and begins to move in and out, in and out.

John begins to push back against Sherlock, trying to get him deeper. This only gets him a firm smack to his flank. 

"John, remember who is in charge here." The friction and pressure are roughly driving John farther and farther into the bed, and Sherlock gets the message across.

John's wrists start to ache against his binds as each thrust changes his position. He would say something if he didn't secretly like the ache. Sherlock gets a better grip on John’s hips and suddenly he is hitting the spot, moving over it again and again with precision. John can't help but cry out at the feeling. Each movement is a little bit needier than the last. Sherlock leans forward and bites down hard into John's shoulder. John pulls at the restraints because he needs friction on his aching member, but with his hips so high, he can't find any purchase. Sherlock doesn't seem to care (too intent on his own pleasure) as he slams into John relentlessly. 

John moans and whimpers, his cock bouncing against his own stomach with the force, and he feels a tightening, a growing ache. He's getting close. He throws his head back with a moan, toying with the pressure before Sherlock is running long fingers back down the length of John's rib cage and stomach; his nails dig in, leaving angry red tracks as he bends forward once more and begins to stroke at John furiously, finally giving him the friction he so desperately needs. He latches onto John's neck, biting deeply, hips thrusting all the while. John's grip tightens on the posts; his thoughts are spinning wildly out of control, he is close, so very, very close. His breath is ragged now, heart racing. He can feel his pulse in his neck and hear it in his ears.

Sherlock's rhythm is becoming more erratic. Closer to the edge... John wants to help him, but his hands are literally tied, and there's nothing he can do. Sherlock is so close, he starts to lose his rhythm.

John's comes with a cry, throwing his head back, gasping out; he can’t help the moans that are drawn from his body. A small part of him is aware that the window is open, but he needs to release the ever threatening groans. His wrists are straining in a mixture of pain and pleasure, eyes flying open as the force of his climax overwhelms him. 

"Sher... Sherlock..." he moans.

Sherlock thrusts harder, barely keeping himself intact, leaning forward and nipping at a shoulder.

"John!" he growls. He gives three final thrusts, before enjoying his own climax. John feels him lose control as his hands grasp for a mock of stability on John's body.

They both go still, gasping for breath. Sherlock presses a kiss to the curve of John's neck, and it’s softly insistent, leaving John to slump forward. Sherlock turns to the side, slowing sliding out of the man he just disassembled, and he throws the condom off in the opposite direction of the bed to be dealt with later. His hands find John's wrists, the ties there leaving tracks of red that are sure to bruise. John turns his head as Sherlock draws level with face. 

“Can you take these bloody things off me now?” John asks in a soft voice, completely sated.

Sherlock gives him an inquiring look, but his hands are light on John's wrists as he unties him. The moment he is free, John twists around and grabs Sherlock's hair at the back of his head. Sherlock yelps even as John fastens his mouth roughly on Sherlock's long, now-exposed neck.

"Next time," he murmurs, practically growling, "it's your turn to be tied down."


End file.
